perfect to me

05 | i fall apart

The room is dark. The curtains are drawn, blocking the sunlight from filtering in, and the light is off. The door to the bedroom is shut, and the only sign of life is the male on the bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress with his feet planted firmly on the floor, his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. He takes long, slow breaths, breathing in deeply and exhaling steadily.

"If you were a better boyfriend, I wouldn't've had to cheat!"

Sofia's harsh words echo in his mind, causing his heart to constrict and his hands to shake. He had tried his best when they were together. He had held doors open for her, visited her often before they moved in together, helped her as best he could when she needed it, academically and financially, covered her rent when she couldn't, held her in his arms when she couldn't sleep, and so much more. But it hadn't been enough.

It pains his heart to know that, despite how hard he had tried, she still went and cheated on him for the last year of their relationship. His friends had been telling him to move on from her, and that she wasn't worth it at all, that she's just a cheating scumbag and other various insults. But, for Oliver, it isn't that easy. He had, at one point, dedicated his life to her, and she returned the favor by stomping on his heart and pulverizing it until it was nothing more than a fine dust.

Ever since she left, his apartment has felt unbelievably empty. The bed feels too big for just him, the fridge too empty without the fruits she likes, the living room too quiet without the sound of her laughter when she watched comedy shows on the telly. Everything around the flat reminds him of her, from the shampoo bottles she left behind in the shower to the jar of Nutella on the kitchen counter. She loved Nutella.

He remains in his position, sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, the blanket on the bed thrown from his side. The mattress dips where he's sitting, the black sheets creasing around him. One of the end tables is covered in photos, and the other one is blank. One half of the bed looks slept in, while the other side seems untouched.

Hurtful words and phrases swirl in the ginger's head, each one feeling like a sharp stab in the gut. Each one is more painful than the last, deepening the pain he's feeling. They pile up in his mind, the stack getting higher and higher until he feels like he might drown or get crushed under the weight. His breathing begins to speed up as the words sink in. Useless. Worthless. Not enough. Weak. Horrible. Soulless. Bitch. Bastard. You'll end up alone. Disappointed. Ashamed of you. Shouldn't exist.

His breaths come out in short gasps, as if he's choking on the words and can't dislodge them from his throat. He looks up and his breathing quickens, if possible. It feels like the walls are closing in, like the walls are coming to squeeze every ounce of life from him because he doesn't deserve to live in the first place. He stumbles to his feet, desperate to escape this claustrophobic feeling and the knot in his chest that keeps tightening painfully.

With a jolt, he realizes he's having a panic attack. He hasn't had one in ages, and the terror, the stress, and the feeling of being trapped suddenly seem more familiar. What was it that his mum always said to do when he feels like this?

"Focus on a happy thought or person," his mum whispers soothingly, rubbing his fifteen year old self's back. "Distract yourself by thinking of these happy memories or thinking of someone special to you. Let your thoughts act as an anchor, Ollie, and let them help you calm down."

He had focused his mind on the family dog, Lynk, and how, every day after school ended, he'd come home and play with Lynk. Slowly, his breathing slowed and the knot in his chest unfurled. The walls returned to their normal positions and he felt like he could truly breathe again. He looked at his mum, hugging her tightly.